


from here to there

by OldMagpie (MagpieMorality)



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Bigotry/Prejudice/Racism, Character Study, First Crusades, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Medieval Europe/North Africa/Middle East, NPC Extras, Origin Story, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Accurate Language (hopefully), Pre-Canon, Pre-First Death and First Meeting, Religious Guilt/Conflict/Fanaticism, So slowburn they won't meet for chapters, War, period-typical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27100204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieMorality/pseuds/OldMagpie
Summary: "We killed each other.""Many times, yes."Nicolò and Yūsuf from the beginning, share one commonality; they are adrift, looking for something to guide them forwards, tossed and torn between conflicts without and within. Nicolò thinks he finds his in the call to the Holy Land. Yūsuf thinks he can make his own in following his family's footsteps. They will both be proven wrong in the shade of the walls of Jerusalem, several years later.But they have to get there first.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 22
Kudos: 26





	1. Nicolò in Zêna and the Pope's Call To Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Translations are in the end notes, or on desktop can be found by hovering over the word the first time it appears (unless the html is wrong in which case blame AO3 ;) ).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Four Years Before Meeting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a labour of love and mad passion. It has consumed my entire life for the past few weeks and I am so scared and so excited to start posting it. The fic is almost entirely drafted but not wholly complete, and I hope to be able to post weekly, or as close to that as possible, and have a concrete chapter count as well soon. This arc is planned to take us from this starting point to their first meeting, and then from there we will see!
> 
> I can't promise this will be a fun or easy read. Many elements in both the story and the telling of it are dark and I have done my best to represent that without sweeping anything under the rug or glorifying what should only be denounced. This is historical fanfiction, and I am sure that we are all at least somewhat acquainted with the time period these two men met in by now. There are words in here that are unpleasant. There are thoughts and actions that are unpleasant, and I trust you all to read that critically as I hope I did when I was researching. 
> 
> Predominantly this is supposed to be an insight into Nicolò and Yūsuf's positions at the time, and how they were to adapt and change. An exploration of prejudice and unlearning, and of fighting your head with your heart when the only information you have to hand is unfairly biased. I think it's something we can all learn from, but Nicolò and Yūsuf's journeys are not all of ours, even if there are strong parallels, so bear in mind that you will almost certainly disagree with me at points! I've worked as hard as possible to find the fullest truth and most honest words for their journey and voices, though I am sure it by no means covers every reality they could have lived if they were really alive and kicking throughout the actual events of this era.
> 
>  **Content warnings throughout will include:** Religion and all accompanying side warnings (religious fanaticism, prejudice, guilt, questioning, conflict). Suicidal ideation and discussions of accepting death/martyrdom (from internalised homophobia, religious fanaticism and religious guilt). Graphic descriptions of NSFW occurrences (Violence/death/gore/blood predominantly, but also sexual/bodily functions and illness). There might not be specific warnings on chapters so stay safe!

**Nicolò**

In a beautiful corner of Zêna, on the outskirts of the bustle of the sea-side ports, there is a præve, a religious man who serves both Dîo and the community he resides in. He rises early and prays, tends to the gardens and animals in the fields nearby and rings the bells when he must. He is serious and shy, and he is undoubtedly a sinner.

Guilt is carried in the every line of his shoulders, so it is not hard to spot, though it goes unspoken. The people who attend the church, the paròchia he provides for, do not know his sins, only that they must be great for one so young, because he is forever praying, rare to moments of lightness, taking confession from the Véscovo in town whenever possible. He came to them not long into adulthood, to help the ageing pàreco with all the tasks associated with running a paròchia that are more suited to a younger man, and has stayed ever since, five good years of hard work and community. He is called Nicolò, and the general population of the town like him well enough. He claims to be from closer to the ocean, in Zêna proper, but seems perfectly at home in these quaint hills, as handy with the tools of his trade as with those of carpentry or farming; as fluent in the Latin of the holy texts as the local zenéize dialect.

It is true, however, that he is not a people person. He attends the various community events with those stiff, set shoulders and a tight mouth, making an appearance for appearances’ sake but not sinking into the river of gossip that fuels such a small place.

Some of those old gossips speculate that he must have grave affairs of the heart in his past, perhaps an inappropriate love with a nobleman's daughter, a broken heart that resulted in his taking the cloth. Some of the men wonder if it is darker; a violent history or a criminal one. It seems unlikely for this soft-spoken and slight man with his slender fingers and sweet way with animals. But Nicolò keeps very much to himself and so none of them can say for sure. And that mystery keeps them hungry.

They do not know how his heart trembles and his hands shake when he wakes at night from a too-vivid dream. They do not see how he keeps his pale eyes carefully on his clasped hands during liturgies, nor how he forces himself to look only straight ahead when he goes to the market and avoids smiling at the cheerful locals going about their lives around him. They do not notice the absence of what he seeks so hard to hide, because it is not there to notice. And such a thing would be almost unthinkable, so far from their minds that murder is a more popular rumour to explain him away.

Nicolò is glad for that, for how it means he is doing well at curbing his sin, even though he cannot- try as he might- purge it from his body entirely. There are far too many quiet moments when he is left with his thoughts and they whisper wickedness inside his head that he refuses to allow to stir his body. Of all the things he has done in his life that is what Nicolò is most proud of; he has never once turned the sin in his soul to a sin of the flesh.

And yet.

That cannot, has never, and will never, be enough. Sins do not need to be acted upon to damn a soul to infernum, and repenting only does so much if the sin returns. Nicolò's sin never leaves him, never tires of tormenting him. Even the five years of dedication to Dîo in this paròchia has not lifted the guilt from his heart and he is weary of it, weary of being afraid and alone and disgusted with himself. He starts to pray at night that some great task will present itself, that Dîo will speak to him as He spoke to Abraham and give him a way to prove himself true of faith, so that He may remove the stain from Nicolò's soul and at last permit him to know peace.

* * *

It happens one morning as he is collecting the fully-grown cabbages from the vegetable patch. A young man hurries up the road towards them, shouting for the prævi.

"Slow down, slow down!" The old pàreco Batista laughs, wandering out of the cottage they share beside their paròchia. Nicolò wipes his hands on his linen tunic, waving off the tsk of disapproval from Batista at the act. The young man is Cassano the baker's son, a figure that never fails to make Nicolò feel queasy. He smiles too brightly, and tosses his floppy brown hair in the sunshine, and he looks at Nicolò sometimes like he must _know,_ with twinkling eyes that laugh silently, u Diâo surely behind them _._ Nicolò affects his blandest expression and does not look back as Cassano glances at him, before the messenger takes Batista's hand warmly, babbling on about his little sister's first words and the line at the butcher down in the port town until Batista steers him back to the message he is supposed to relay. Nicolò listens carefully to the words the follow and feels an entirely different strange feeling wash over him when he hears what they are being told. It feels like something special. Something precious...

It feels as though Dîo has heard him.

"The Pope has spoken in Clairmont. The most righteous pelegrinàggio that can be made, a truly Holy cause…" Batista echoes to himself, before waving Cassano on to his next stop. A simple message from the Véscovo de Zêna, an informal passing on of news- not an official statement. He and Nicolò share a look and lift of eyebrows before setting back to their daily tasks, minds not wholly on the work. Until formal word comes there is little they can do, and from the meagre words of the message all they really know is that something has been said and something will be done. Eventually. Over supper that night, a simple broth, they talk. "It is to retake the East for Dîo and his faithful, I would guess," Batista hums, thumbing a knot on the wooden tabletop. Nicolò slurps his broth and waits. Batista has a habit of getting to the point slowly, so Nicolò has learned to outwait him in silence until he gets there. "It will be a war, no doubt. The people of our lands are hungry for it. Sicilia was a good victory and we should not stop there. But they will take all the men and our cities will empty… It will be long and difficult, as a test of faith must be." He frowns, then casts his wise brown eyes at Nicolò across the table. Nicolò, for his part, tries to look utterly unconcerned and entirely neutral on the subject but Batista knows him, studying him carefully and reading too much. Five years they have lived together. It is hard not to know a man you live with day in, day out, in such close quarters. "Wait, until there is more to hear," is all Batista says in the end, a warning in his tone that Nicolò obligingly nods to. "This may blow past us quickly, or it may light a fire among the true believers. Perhaps the very shape of our world will change or perhaps it will not. Wait, and see, before you do anything rash." The way he says it makes Nicolò's heart race, certain that Batista knows his heart already. He wants to protest that a simple call to pelegrinàggio should not cause the concern he sees in Batista's lined and leathery face. But the man is as close to a father to him as he has ever had. Nicolò will not push away the care implicit in that concern.

Batista continues to squint at Nicolò until he receives another nod in return and they turn back to dinner. They silently agree not to speak on it until further word is received.

A month and a half later Cassano is once again running down the road, this time with an entire bag slung across his shoulder. In it are actual written messages, one to Batista and more for the other paròchia in the hills, news for the entire diocese from their Véscovo. He barely stops to throw their message their way before darting off again, a fervent light in his eyes. He is too busy to look at Nicolò. Nicolò is too tight-strung with anticipation to even notice him. 

It is the word they have been unspokenly waiting for; the Véscovo relays in full the details of the great speech at Clairmont. It is as Batista predicted, but the old man doesn't seem as enthusiastic about the fact that war is coming as Nicolò and the townsfolk. He does nothing to express displeasure, of course, but his faint smile is exactly that; faint, not full.

From that point on things change. Nicolò later marks it as the turning point; the swing of the balanced blade from the side of unsettled peace to the side of unbridled chaos. From aimless living to purpose. Nicolò hears more and more chatter of a great stirring occurring far and wide and sees that same energy in his own paròchia. Preachers and pelegrini are on the move, spreading and sharing Pope Urban's message of a great march east to curb the influence of the infidels and protect the Holy City, Iherusalem, also called Hierosolyma. The exact wording of the message varies, but it is apparently striking at the hearts and souls (and perhaps tactical minds) of the Frankish prìnçipi in particular. The crowd is riling to the spreading rumours of great atrocities committed against devout innocents, and the Pope has chosen for the pelegrinàggio to begin in a year once the armies are assembled.

When he travels to the port to confess at the church there, Nicolò gets more of a sense of it. It has been many months since the first message, and more than that since Urban's now-famous sermon. People from all over the Frankish kingdoms are starting to move, leaving their homes behind to follow some inspiring preacher called Pedrin or Pietro, migrating like a great wave north-east. Some flood through Zêna, the port feeling busier than ever as Nicolò wanders the streets on his rare visits, receiving exuberant greetings and clasps on the arm that he returns with swift murmured blessings as the faithful pass by. At one point he has to stop and just stare out over the harbour, looking at the bustle of the sailors and merchants on the docks, and tasting the sea-salt air. It's a lot to take in, even before he sees the Véscovo in person and hears out loud the words that strike him dumb, dry-mouthed with hope and desperation; Urban has also proclaimed that any who fall in pursuit of their holy goal will be pardoned their every transgression and sin, and gain eternal rest in caelis at His side. That message is spreading like the wildfires that sometimes sweep through the countryside in the height of summer, and Nicolò is not immune to the fire lighting under the skin of those seeing penance, or glory in the name of Dîo.

Or both.

He is not immune to the hum of anticipation and fervour that hangs everywhere in the air, either. It grips him, leaves him breathless, and he is taken all at once, one cold winter morning in 1096, with the heady desire to join the march and fight for his Dominus and poor brothers and sisters that live in danger of the encroaching pagan evil. Ever since he first heard Urban's summons he has known that this would be it for him, but until this morning he hadn't truly decided.

Batista knows his mind the second he claps eyes on the unusually bright greeting Nicolò throws him at breakfast that morning, standing tall with his shoulders back and head up proudly. Batista steps close and clasps his hands on Nicolò's shoulders, kissing him on both cheeks with a sad smile. Nicolò can only smile helplessly back. "It is good to see you with a purpose, fili mi. I hope it brings you the peace you deserve."

"I will not go without your blessing, pàddre, if you believe my place is here then-"

"It would be a cruelty to keep you from your purpose, Nicolò, we both know that. It is not within me to deny you this, even as my heart will be sad to see you go." Batista's smile warms Nicolò's bones and he cannot help himself, leaning in to hug the older præve. They embrace for a long few held seconds, in which Batista gently cups the back of his head and Nicolò tries not to cry.

His mentor and friend and family wipes his tears when they part, and turns the conversation to planning and preparation.

* * *

Pedrin, that is called l Ermìtto, a Frank, draws the thousands upon thousands of people looking for holy battle to the north, a detour as well as a premature departure that frustrates many of the actual organisers and commanders of the soon-to-be crusading army. Nicolò…

Nicolò does not join them, that April.

In hindsight it is somewhat of a blessing, not to have been caught up in the violence and shared vitriol that drives the many non-cavagêi to such widespread killing. The word from on high is that this is an act to be greatly condemned and yet the madness seems to grip the mobs and they simply keep going. Whatever Nicolò may or may not think about the Giudêo people, he has his sights set on the enemy Urban has pointed them at and they are not that. He is certainly not enamoured of the tales of mass execution that he hears, though he does not hear them until months later, when he is on the road and some of the half-crazed survivors of that first army join the vastly more prepared main force, almost more terrifying than the enemy they sweep inevitably towards. The proud bragging of those pelegrini will turn his stomach, though not as much as the horrendous illness that is, in honesty, the only reason he was not there alongside them, bathed in blood. For weeks, two and a half in the end, Nicolò is- perhaps fortunately- laid low by fever, spending multiple days in a delirium, babbling strange things at Batista who cares so carefully for him. It is a minor miracle that the old man comes out unscathed himself, with the strength of Nicolò's affliction. It is a bigger miracle that Nicolò doesn't die, despite the loss of two of the townsfolk. He certainly feels as though he must have, like only a shell of himself when he comes back to true consciousness to discover he can barely lift his head off the bed. 

He thinks he recalls Batista’s rough voice praying for him one night, when he was barely able to breathe for exhaustion. 

"Dominus, dā ei vitum,” the old man whispers somewhere nearby. “Si admittes servire, gloria tuus erit. Hoc tempus non mori est. Pe cortexîa, Dominus. Caritae filii tui, miserere mei. _Pregâ_.” 

It might not even be real, just a momentary gift from his tired mind, and when Nicolò finally properly awakes, he does not ask. Better to hold it dear and never be sure than to know it was only a fabrication. 

Batista keeps him on rest for as long as he can, which Nicolò is very grateful for. He still feels like a newborn foal even a week after the worst of the sickness has passed, stumbling through the little cottage on shaky legs, forced to sit frequently and leave the more labour intensive tasks of the day to Batista. Little by little he regains his strength, motivated by the suddenly looming deadline of the autumn departure. He works hard to build back up what lean muscle he can, and is gifted a simple but effective sword to wield by Batista, who reveals he has been talking to a blacksmith nearby to organise the gift. There is no one Nicolò can go to in order to learn how to use it, and he feels ridiculous swinging the thing clumsily around in the gardens without a clue as to what he is doing. He admits as much to Batista when he asks how Nicolò is progressing.

"Perhaps I was too hasty in choosing this path," he sighs and frowns, poking his beans. The lack of success does not take long to introduce doubt into the certain confidence of his choice.

Batista chuckles. "Hasty is not the word I would choose. I believe destiny is more apt. The light of it was in your eyes that day, Nicolò, I can assure you. It is rare that I see anything of its kind but I recognised it then. Besides, do you think any of the great men who have undergone such trials and tests are ever fully ready? Would it be a true test if they were able to complete it without struggle and difficulty?" Nicolò has to admit that Batista has a point there and the old man goes on. "You are as Gexù the Son, facing a sacrifice that you are saddened to make but know is right. Just as He was brave for all of our souls, so too will you be, I know it. If you are truly worried then I will say I am sure you will learn quick; you are to live with men of the sword for many months, they will teach you. And if you…" he trails off with a distant look, but blinks back when Nicolò leans over to touch the back of his hand, offering another one of his ever-more-frequent sad smiles. "If you do not return from this pelegrinàggio then it will have been a noble and true end. I will weep for joy to know you know peace at last in the arms of pater noster."

Nicolò does cry then. It bubbles up, frustration from his illness and poor skills and shaken confidence, and the hard truth that he hasn't quite admitted to himself as yet which is that he will die on this pelegrinàggio. He hopes to; not because he desires death (he has not ever tasted that sin) but because he desires absolution and this death is the surest way of gaining it. That Batista will rejoice if he does, calms and clears the final insecurity inside him, leaving the path clear for him to grieve for the life he will not have, in safety, before he can turn to determination once more.

Night falls as he leans on Batista's shoulder and gets through the overwhelming sadness, and he excuses himself before bed to go into the paròchia and kneel before the solemn wooden cross, praying as he has never before prayed; with joy and hope in his heart and soul.

* * *

When word comes that an army is passing by with Hugo Magnus at the helm, taking the southern and sea route to Constantinopolis, Nicolò hears the call of Dîo in it. He is as ready as he will ever be, and gathers his possessions, meagre though they are, shouldering a bag that contains everything he will use to stay alive for the many months to come. The townsfolk see him off with gifts, not all of which he can take with him. Every last one pricks at his heart though, and he speaks his gratitude earnestly that these people he never wanted to let in have such kindness for him. Food, clothes; he takes of what he can. Money he tries to refuse but is pressed to keep and is secretly glad for it. Icons and pressed flowers and sweet treats he leaves behind with regret.

Batista walks alongside him for part of the journey, stopping once they reach the crossroads that will take him to the port. Down below, in the faintest distance, the sea waits, and before that the army that cannot yet be seen. Nicolò's very soul shakes with the desire to be with them but he turns, forces his face away to look at Batista first.

"Vade ad Deum," the old man murmurs, kissing him on either cheek and then his forehead. Then he pulls something from around his neck and puts it over Nicolò's, pressing it firmly against his chest. It is his very own cross pendant, but now it hangs not on the worn leather cord that had for so long held it safely around Batista's neck, but on a simple metal chain instead. Nicolò touches it in wonder and casts his eyes up to the pàreco. "I cannot join you on this pelegrinàggio,” Batista continues softly. “I should like you to take this piece of me to see the salvation of the Holy City instead, have it with you as you have my blessing and my love with you always, Nicolò fili mi, puer Dei. Carry it as you ascend into His glory, when it is your time."

"Pàddre," Nicolò gasps, then quieter, barely a breath of sound; " _Poæ_. I-"

He is soothed by the man's firm embrace. "It does not need to be said, o figgio mae."

It makes the parting harder but sweeter somehow. Nicolò glances back in the direction of the sea, aware of the time swiftly passing them by and Batista steps back with one last squeeze to his arm. He waves him on with a wordless click of his teeth, smiling broadly and without sadness.

"Adîo pàddre! Adîo!" Nicolò calls as he starts off on his journey, hurrying along the dirt path and nearly tripping as he turns to wave over his shoulder.

"Adîo, Nicolò," Batista whispers to himself as he stands, one lonely figure watching another, looking on as long as he can until Nicolò is well out of sight. He sighs, looking up at the sky, blue cut through with thin white, and sends up a wordless prayer.

Then he turns and goes back home, one son emptier than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>   
>  **Zêna:** Genoa  
>  **præve:** Priest  
>  **Dîo:** God  
>  **paròchia:** Parish/Parish Church  
>  **Véscovo/Véscovo de Zêna:** Bishop/Bishop of Genoa  
>  **pàreco:** Parish Priest  
>  **zenéize:** Genoese (language)  
>  **infernum:** hell  
>  **u Diâo:** the Devil  
>  **pelegrinàggio:** Pilgrimage  
>  **pelegrini:** Pilgrims  
>  **Iherusalem/Hierosolyma:** Jerusalem  
>  **prìnçipi:** Princes  
>  **caelis:** Heaven  
>  **fili mi:** My son (religious)  
>  **pàddre:** Father (religious)  
>  **l Ermìtto:** the Hermit  
>  **cavagêi:** Soldiers/Knights  
>  **Giudêo:** Jewish  
>  **Dominus, dā ei vitum:** Lord, let him live  
>  **Si admittes servire, gloria tuus erit:** If you allow him to serve, he will be your glory  
>  **Hoc tempus non mori est:** This is not his time to die  
>  **Pe cortexîa, Dominus:** Please, Lord  
>  **Caritae filii tui, miserere mei. Pregâ:** For the love of your Son, be merciful to mine. I beg you.  
>  **Gexù:** Jesus  
>  **pater noster:** our Father (religious)  
>  **Vade ad Deum:** Go with God  
>  **puer Dei:** child of God  
>  **Poæ:** father (familial)  
>  **o figgio mae:** my son (familial)  
>  **Adîo:** Goodbye


	2. Yūsuf on the Road and Arrival in al-'Iksandariyya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Four Years Before Meeting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may recognise this as the second half of the original chapter 1! after scratching my head over this for over a week I have decided to separate Nicolò and Yūsuf's chapters. There have been no changes to the chapter itself since it was last posted!
> 
> This chapter as with every alternating pair of chapters takes place roughly at the same time as Nicolò's.

**Yūsuf**

Yūsuf is a young man, with a young man's strength and life coursing through him, a young man's tenacity and persistence and charisma. He has all his dark hair full on his head and face, the creases around his eyes are from laughter more than age, and he stands tall and well-built in any room he enters. He is young and in his prime, and he knows it.

He does not feel young right now, having the same discussion for the fourth time over tea with this pompous little idiot who thinks that just because he owns the biggest pottery shop in al-Qairuwân that he can dictate whatever terms he likes to the merchants who deal with him.

Yūsuf being one of those merchants.

No, he feels an old weariness that he suspects will follow him for the rest of his life, a tedium and frustration that makes him want to complain like a grouchy old man might, sitting on his doorstep after ṣalāt aẓ-ẓuhr, bemoaning the state of the world.

In this moment his youth works against him, and the man Fātik- slippery dog that he is- just will not compromise. It's enough to make Yūsuf want to smash every last delicate piece in the house he is forced to sit pleasantly and smile in, but he restrains himself, the warning words of his yemma loud in his memory.

"We cannot keep finding new partners, Yūsuf, just because you don't like them. Trade is conducted between men who have common goals, common values, but not necessarily common hearts! Be patient, memmi."

He sighs, because she is right and because he misses her. Soon he can return home, but first he must make the journey north, up to al-Quds and perhaps even on to Rūmiyyat al-Kubra if the Byzantines have sorted out their squabbles by that point. Yūsuf thinks he would like to visit Rūmiyyat al-Kubra, to see the streets there and feel her heart. He has a vague and romantic dream of being like the great traveller and chronicler al-Maqdisī; able to say he has set foot in every city, or at least the biggest and best ones; of having stories from each that he can tell for years until he is old and grey and his family have long since heard them all and are begging him to stop with laughter in their hearts.

He sighs again. It is a fool’s dream- or rather a poet's. Because at heart Yūsuf is not a merchant; but like his baba desires above all else to fill the world with beautiful words, to find beautiful words for the world, and to perhaps leave some lasting touch out there for the centuries to come so his voice will never be lost. He thinks being forgotten is the worst thing that can happen to a man, and a significant amount of the words scribbled in haste on scraps of accounts and stuffed in his pockets for later reuse are thoughts on life and death and legacy. Nothing yet flows from his hand on love, but Yūsuf is not worried and not in a rush. His position as his baba's heir protects him for now from any unwanted marriage, so that he may travel and be free, but even if his family chose a match he would fight it bitterly and he does not doubt- expectations or no- that his parents would allow him the win. He is too much like his baba, and his parents are still too much in love despite the constant exasperation and complaints from his yemma about her scatterbrained husband. They do and they would understand.

Sometimes Yūsuf wonders what his life would be like if he felt the sort of lust other men felt before marriage. He simply does not understand. When he looks at women, ones he knows and ones he doesn't, he feels nothing of the kind towards them. His friends always joked that he simply had high standards, and for a time Yūsuf had wondered if perhaps it was not that but something else… but he did not look at men any differently to women, in the end. It remains a hope, a longing in his chest, that he will one day feel love for someone, that he will want to write them poetry and sing their beauty and grace aloud in his rough but joyous voice, and that he will be loved the same in return. It's such a nice hope, and it keeps him smiling and moving forwards, roaming on great long trade journeys and encountering all the glittering world has to offer.

But maybe part of his desire to travel stems from wondering if his true love is elsewhere in the world, and the faint but insistent notion that sitting around at home will lead to him never finding them. But it is a complementary goal that works alongside his other dreams and, conveniently, his work, so he is not overly worried about chasing it. He isn't exactly looking, either, it's just that maybe he is hoping for a chance meeting in al-ʾIskandariyya or a connection in a kārvānsarāy in the north. He is a romantic for romance, desperate for the chance to orientate his focus around a subject more solid than a concept.

In the meantime he has to work, and Fātik is still sat across from him, talking just to hear the sound of his voice and irritating Yūsuf no small amount. Patience, says his yemma. Patience.

* * *

The life of a merchant is long and hard, no matter where in the world he might set foot. Yūsuf privately thinks that certainly few other distant lands can have it as hard as he does, tentatively tiptoeing through lands rife with violence and unrest. A man's dialect can out him as the wrong kind, lead to a bloody death, but Yūsuf's family have been living here- first in al-Qairuwân and then al-Mahdiyya where he was born- for long enough to have grown very smart. They would not be successful otherwise, and Yūsuf's yemma would never have settled for anything less than success. It is her family's trade he has inherited, not his baba’s, and the last time he had spoken to his jeddi, several years ago now, the old man had sent him off with dire warnings and several pieces of good advice.

His first suggestion; "Keep to yourself. If someone knows you they can dislike you and you will not get along by being disliked."

His second; "Talk sweetly. Men like to hear honey words, and even if they profess to despise lies and flattery they will not stop you once you have started. You are a charmer, memmi-s n memmi-s, you have the smile of a friend, so make use of it."

His third and final; "There is only one thing more important than survival and that is the preservation of what is good. On your travels you will encounter bad, perhaps evil, and you will have a choice. Choose, by all means, to protect yourself first, but if you can then do not hesitate to help. Take this," and here his jeddi had pressed a blade into his palm, a sweet little sharp knife with a shining handle, "and learn to use it well. Do not allow it to be used against you."

Yūsuf is proud to say he has taken all three edicts to heart and is more than happy with the seven years of travel he has already undertaken. The business is mostly stable- not quite flourishing as the invaders roam across land he would have once easily promoted as trade routes, between al-Qairuwân and al-Qāhirah, but stable nonetheless. He has a good head for people, reading them as easily as he might read script on a page, well-educated as he is. He can count and sell and barter with the best (and Fātik was not one of those) and he can defend himself just as easily. Along with the knife he carries other weapons, has sturdier layers to add over his clothes while on the move, has studied how to use the long, elegant saif that sits strapped to his hip as he rides.

It's all intended more as a deterrent than anything else, ideally, but naturally it comes in handy more than once as he rides towards al-ʾIskandariyya, avoiding trouble as much as possible but unable to help the odd run in. He is not foolish enough to travel with his wares- these are exceptional times and he has no kārvān or guards to protect him- instead using the year to foster relationships as far afield as possible, hunt for new deals and cities to expand into. Perhaps he will take some time to stop in at the great centres of learning; no one would know if he took a small detour, and there are so many libraries out there awaiting his eyes…

"You are thinking again." But he does not travel alone now. For the past few days another young man has joined him, newly loyal to the Fatimids and overly fervent about his new cause. He was living on a farmstead (ransacked as most now are across al-Maghrib) that Yūsuf had stopped past a few days after Barqa, proclaiming his desire to join the armies in the east and north. He wanted to salvage his ruined future, he declared while Yūsuf had lent a hand with setting some animal pens in order. _Do not hesitate to help._ His name is Qutaybah and he is somehow even more talkative than Fātik was, even with the soft muffling of the bukar over his face that denotes him as old enough to be considered as a man. "Is it important? Are you contemplating-"

"Only my stomach, nothing more," Yūsuf stops him quickly, inwardly apologising to Allāh for his impatience with the earnest boy. "We should find a place to end the day soon, before dark falls."

Qutaybah nods eagerly, his legs stumbling to keep up with Yūsuf’s longer, steadier gait. "Is it far now to al-ʾIskandariyya? Only I am so tired, and it has been so long already…"

"You will not be well suited to the army if you are tired after just three days of journey, amidi. I expect you will be walking for many years and under the weight of armour no doubt. You had better have armour at least, unless death is your desire."

"Hardly! I desire to serve, to fight and win great battles in the name of Allāh! Perhaps I will go north and fight in the cold. Do you think it is so cold there? My anna would say the wind is less kind in the north, and the sun too busy looking down upon us here to warm their earth. Perhaps I ought to buy a cloak as well as armour, then-"

On and on he goes, fading into the background of Yūsuf's senses while the older man turns his concentration towards picking a safe place to eat and sleep. Late tomorrow they will reach the city if they push their pace, not that he has told Qutaybah that, and he is very much looking forward to no longer sleeping on the hard ground. Experienced traveller he may be; but Yūsuf is still not immune to discomfort. Accustomed to it, certainly, but never happy about it. He dreams of a stuffed mat and walls keeping the flies and the sun away so that he can rest a full night through. Qutaybah's voice underscores his thinking all the way to sunset, throughout the entire process of setting camp and producing a small meal for them both, only quiet when they stop to pray, voice softening into a matching awe-filled murmur along with Yūsuf’s. Yūsuf does not begrudge the young man his exuberance, edged as it is with the first sharp hints of nerves; the way his tongue trips on some of the phrases he has not long since learned to pray with; nor the meal they share that Yūsuf prepares for them. The farmer's wife, Qutaybah's yemma, had fed him well while he worked and then packed them off with some dried meats and grains and other useful foods as thanks for accompanying her memmi across the world. Yūsuf is only too happy to share with the hands that helped provide.

She had cried so much, Qutaybah's yemma. Yūsuf cannot help but remember. He wonders sometimes if his yemma has ever cried for him out on the road, but he throws the thought off. She loves him very much, he knows, but more than that she has the utmost faith and confidence in his ability to get by. The day she cries over him will be the day he dies, and he is quite determined to make very sure that such a day is long into the future.

* * *

Al-ʾIskandariyya is glorious this time of year. A bustling crowd even as the sun sets that sucks Yūsuf in and cradles him, bobbing him along its streets like a fishing boat in a gentle bay. He loves to get lost in the voices, the noise, and the smells as well. Food is plentiful and rich, and once he gets Qutaybah settled in their accommodation for the night he sets off down to the stalls to see what treasures he can find.

Yūsuf has always wondered what the city was like at its highest point. It hasn’t fallen far- the strategic placement of it guarantees its continued survival- but the general shrinking of the al-Khilafah al-Fāṭimīyah and the shift of governance east is certainly adding a little strain, as is the rise of al-Qāhirah, the glamorous and fast-growing capital of the al-Khilafah. But even though things have changed, al-ʾIskandariyya is still a significant port and there's something more honest about how hard it has to work, no idling or smug sense that the city knows its own importance and believes itself better than any other. It remembers glorious days fondly, but it does not chase them nor wallow in looking back, simply carrying on. It reminds him of al-Qairuwân, though there is an air of despair there that hangs like a foul smell, the echoes of destruction still well within living memory.

He could live here in al-ʾIskandariyya, he thinks; make a home and travel out across the sea or inland whenever he wanted, but return back to it with such a sense of relief and belonging. The people are not so worried about the concept of outsiders, not when ships and kārvānhā come in and out all the time, bearing all manner of crew speaking all manner of languages, and the streets hold all sizes, shapes and shades. Its stubborn diversity is well protected by the merchants that favour it and that stubbornness only increases year upon year as other cities lose the same luxury and al-ʾIskandariyya steps up again and again to gather new waves of lost migrants into its hardy streets. Religion is hardly a pressing matter either; Yūsuf has always had the freedom to worship as he pleases when passing through- and has engaged in more than one spirited debate over the intricacies of his faith- and he praises Allāh for maintaining this haven for him to enjoy. 

Allāh receives a doubling dose of that praise and gratitude when he sees the mounds of fresh fruit being lifted from some newly delivered crates in the stalls nearest the harbour. Tibexsisin and tičinatin and even afeqqus, though the names are different here, all clustered together in bright chunks of colour to rival the rich blue of the sea and sky, of which he has his pick. He avoids where he can the too-pale men and their stark northern ships out of sheer distaste, hurrying past before he can start wondering if any of them had been at al-Mahdiyya when it burned, and finds a friendly sailor who greets his “azul, masaa‘ al-khayr,” with a nod and the customary “masaa‘ an-nuur.” 

Pockets full and fruit acquired, he heads back to the rooms he'll share with Qutaybah until the young man can furnish himself and find a fellow aserdas to join from here. It should be no more than a few days with the frequency at which armed men are currently on the move, and Yūsuf is both pleased and frustrated by the delay. He would not spend so much time here without the excuse as he does in fact have a schedule to keep to before the year is out, but spending more time in his favourite city is hardly a hardship and he knows he will be glad to remember it when he leaves.

"Do you fight?" Qutaybah asks him the next afternoon, looking thoughtfully at the dagger in Yūsuf's pack, his saif carefully tucked away under his low bed. "What is it like?" He adds, without waiting for an answer.

Yūsuf takes a moment to think. He sits on his bed and Qutaybah has the seat on the floor by their low table, back to the white wall, from where he now gazes at Yūsuf. Who, reaching over from where he was busy scratching out some half-formed lines of poetry onto the back of an already covered scrap, picks the dagger up and spins it slowly to catch the light, then flips it in a neat movement and catches the flat of the blade carefully, handing the hilt out towards Qutaybah. It looks wrong in the boy’s hands when he takes it, too large and ostentatious and uncomfortable. He holds it like a treasure, or a jewel, not a tool to be used. Yūsuf thinks Qutaybah has hands that deserve to lift nothing worse than a backhoe, but life and Allāh have decided things will be different for him it would seem. "It is good to learn," he finally responds, taking the dagger back before Qutaybah's inexperienced fumbling can get himself hurt. "But it is no joyous thing to use. Violence is…"

"Scary?" Qutaybah suggests with a wideness to his eyes that reveal almost as much as the too-quick word he had chosen to blurt out, but Yūsuf shakes his head.

"Heartbreaking," he corrects, filling the word with his meaning. It is too small for what that feeling actually is, but it is close enough, and harsh and unexpected enough to get the sentiment he wants to across to Qutaybah. The young man balks, cupping his hands together in his lap. For once he is quiet, looking at Yūsuf with an open expression that silently begs explanation.

How to answer that?

"Protection, survival; it is necessary. If someone attacks you there is nothing that should stop you from defending yourself. But the fact that it is so necessary, that so much hate and anger and pain exists in the hearts of men that we must fight against it so often, that is heartbreaking. Anger and hate leave so little room for love, and joy, and wonder at the world. To know that a man, such a pure creation of Allāh , made for song and dance and to tend this precious land gifted to us, has been so twisted that he no longer reflects the joy and hope of his creator? How can I not weep at the thought?"

Qutaybah tilts his head and leans forwards. "But anger is natural as breathing to men, al-Kaysani. Allāh must have willed it so. And hatred-” Yūsuf has far too many thoughts on hatred, on loathing evil that wanders freely over peaceful ground, but Qutaybah is young and needs to hear different words than how justified and righteous such hatred can feel “-how could we not hate those who seek to hurt us out of fear and jealousy? Should we accept them without a thought, accept the consequences? Allow Allāh's proper teachings to go undefended by the faithful? Allow greedy, corrupted men to take what is not theirs? You cannot fight with love."

"You should not have to!"

"But we _do-_ "

"You misunderstand me," Yūsuf interrupts him firmly with a decisive shake of his head, having heard more than enough. Qutaybah’s counter-argument is too much like the one he’s heard many times in his own head, but he has not spent all these years ruminating on it without finding an answer to his own feelings that at least satisfies him in the short term. "It is not the response that saddens me, it is that there _must be_ a response. If there was no hatred in the first place then there would be no hatred needed to rise to meet it. I do not ask men to change, I only mourn that we have allowed hatred a place in our lives at all. Hatred breeds hatred; anger breeds anger; violence breeds only violence."

Silence falls between them as Qutaybah wrestles with the conversation, expression twisting lightning-quick between agreement and disagreement, compassion and derision. Eventually he just hums, sitting back and plucking a tičinat from the bowl to absently pick at while he gazes thoughtfully at Yūsuf. Yūsuf for his part leaves him to it, returning the dagger to its place and picking up the reed instead. He can exist as a man of contradictions; it is not his life's work to become less complex for the sake of the ease of others, nor indeed for his own. 

Still, his words don't flow the same way as before when he returns to writing. They want to spread lines of quiet delight in the same sharp way a sword does instead of pressing peace into the page.

He stops resisting and violence blooms in the flowing script he uses so often for thoughts of peace. He has a poet’s heart given by Allāh but a warrior’s spirit forged in a war-torn land, and his hand always aims to please both. It is calloused from the reins of his horse; the reed stylus he uses; and of course the hilt of his blade.

Contradiction, he reminds himself, as he looks from his hands to his work and finds what lies in ink there in front of him to be nothing short of beautiful.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>   
>  **al-Qairuwân:** Kairouan  
>  **ṣalāt aẓ-ẓuhr:** Noon prayer  
>  **yemma:** mother  
>  **memmi:** son  
>  **al-Quds:** Jerusalem  
>  **Rūmiyyat al-Kubra:** Constantinople/Istanbul  
>  **baba:** father  
>  **al-'Iksandariyya:** Alexandria  
>  **kārvānsarāy:** caravanserai/roadside inn  
>  **al-Mahdiyya:** Mahdia  
>  **jeddi:** grandfather  
>  **memmi-s n memmi-s:** grandson/son of my son  
>  **al-Qāhirah:** Cairo  
>  **saif:** sword  
>  **kārvān:** caravan/travelling group  
>  **bukar:** cotton turban  
>  **amidi:** friend  
>  **anna:** mother  
>  **al-Khilafah al-Fāṭimīyah:** Fatimid Caliphate  
>  **Tibexsisin:** figs  
>  **tičinatin:** oranges  
>  **afeqqus:** melons  
>  **azul:** hello  
>  **masaa‘ al-khayr:** good evening  
>  **masaa‘ an-nuur:** evening of light  
>  **aserdas:** soldier  
> 


	3. March to the Crossing at Bare and Winter in Constantinopolis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Three Years Before Meeting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter responsible for teaching me the difference between loath and loathe. Specific warnings for this chapter are a very unpleasant and ignorant mentality; references to terrible atrocities caused by the People's Crusade; general racism and bigotry and a Bad Time for Nicolò. Also we finally reach _that_ word and I don't get to go on about it as much as I plan to later.
> 
> Picks up after Chapter 1; translations available in hover on browser or in the end notes on mobile.

**Nicolò**

An army on the march is an experience that can not ever truly be described. Nicolò certainly wouldn't bother to try, not when he's still reeling three weeks later, adjusting to every new thing he can.

First it is the noise. The sheer solid sound of several thousand raucous men full of energy, sharing too small a space. It rarely lets up, leaving the ears ringing for hours into the night until one might feel deafened permanently, and then forget what silence is entirely. They aren’t alone either; surrounded by a ring of other pelegrin that will not fight but will help them on their holy journey, forming the outer sections of the small travelling city they must seem like to the people and places they pass by.

Then the smell. Again; several thousand men are on the march together, even in this smaller section of the larger force. It is no longer the height of summer- thanks be to Dîo, and Urban for specifying they should leave in August- but they are not a bathing people, and there is no time for such luxurious things anyhow. It hadn't been so different at home for Nicolò, but without even a change of clothes or the relief of fresh air between one body and the next, it sticks in his nose and leaves him walking around with an ever-present disgusted expression. He is equally unimpressed with the scratch of his steadily growing facial hair, itching as it gradually lengthens out into a patchy and unkempt attempt at a beard. At least until that too, blends into the background like the noise and smell, senses numbing to the overwhelming influx of sensation. 

Finally is the contact, and that hits Nicolò the hardest of all. They share tents; evening fires; training grounds… Hands are clapped on one another frequently, jostling and joking, but also in companionship and camaraderie, embracing and playfully fighting in turn. In all his years Nicolò has never seen the like, and he knows that there is more even than the so-called 'brotherly' behaviour of daytime going on inside the tents at night. There are women who travel alongside them with the rest of the pelegrin and the cavagêi are not loath to partake, perhaps viewing it as simply another thing to atone for by completing their goal. 

But beyond even that particular carnal sin lies the other; when the women are scarce or simply undesirable Nicolò’s fellow cavagêi will turn to… other cavagêi. He shudders to think of it, wondering at the madness that must grasp a man to put himself underneath another. U Dîao must be there in their coupling, to induce such a thing. At least with the pelegrini, if a cavagêo were to choose to bed a man who is not a fighter there is some argument to be made for leniency, that their places in the world are reflected in who has who on his knees. But despite his attempts to justify it to himself, or his morbid curiosity as to the why of it all; he cannot dwell on it for too long or else the images start to resolve too clearly and the fine line he toes himself lights up bright in front of his feet, ready and waiting for him to cross. It makes him lurch backwards further into his own faith, the scalding, purifying fire of it that had driven him to join up, so that he may ignore it. 

Many of the cavagêi-pelegrini he marches with, south to Rómma and then southeast in order to make the crossing at Bari to Constantinopolis, are crude men. They are Franks, calling their leader 'Hugues de Vermandois' or 'Hugues le Grand' and laughing at Nicolò's attempts to copy their accent. They talk, when he can understand, of the Saraceni (a word they have taught him applies to the pagan enemy they face, and sometimes the <spant title="Byzantines">Graecora</span> but not always? There is some context that seems to fluidly change sometimes, that he is too slow or ignorant yet to grasp) they will rid the world of; the battles they have already fought; the conquests they have won. They boast loudly and long and sometimes- in the late evening dark and deep into their cups- they talk of sins they are marching to repent for. None are like Nicolò's sin, and they are rarely unspoken sins of the heart and mind and soul but vivid and visceral, _vicious_ things that turn him pale to hear. Not all of the cavagêi are thus, certainly, but more than Nicolò could have imagined. More than he likes.

They are still fervently faithful men though, which is a great comfort even as it makes his head hurt, trying in vain to reconcile it with their less devout thoughts and behaviours. He is also finally able to learn how to use his sword for more than just show. They train hard whenever they are not on the march, and the constant walking and subsequent drills with his heavy weapon make him strong and swift in no time at all. He feels honed, like a weapon for Dîo to wield against the enemy and hopes that He will not waste it. _Make good use of me before the end_ , Nicolò prays in the moments before sleep, one hand on his sword and the other curled tightly around Batista's pendant.

And somehow, despite his unease and conflict; despite the madness and chaos and strange new way of life; Nicolò finds he is actually enjoying himself. He was quickly marked as an ex-præve and enjoys the small prestige that brings; the awe at his dedication to Dîo, that he would leave an already pious life to pursue the pelegrinàggio east. When he explains, in Latin and the odd word of Frankish that he has learned, how he felt called to the task, they burst into flurries of agreement, drawing him into great passionate discussions on the mission they are to carry out, what it might mean to the faithful trapped in the east and the generations thereafter to know that Iherusalem is free of the burden of heretics and daemones and evil men. 

Nicolò has heard many more accounts of Urban's speech since talking to the Frankish prævi in the pelegrin camp. The rumours Nicolò had previously only heard third or fourth hand now reach him clearly. They say Urban spoke of Saraceni attacking and capturing good people, seeking to destroy the people of Dîo. The attacks would continue and worsen, Urban had said, unless they went to curb them; which in the intervening months must have happened. The original pelegrin army has suffered greatly in their own attempt to save the eastern lands and Nicolò’s fellows solemnly swear to avenge them and finish the job properly. Each new tale adds another little burst of determination to Nicolò's own fervour, gasping and decrying the actions of their enemy alongside the other men around the fire. The story-tellers take delight in his horror; their own certainty that this pelegrinàggio is Holy reaffirmed by their pet præve's aversion to what he has heard. Perhaps they exaggerate, perhaps he guesses that they do, but they all urge each other on and the companionship of shared hatred is a heady, addictive thing, bonding them tight together and relieving Nicolò of his turmoil in favour of a simpler truth. However bad the men around him may have been in the past- they are devout and anxious to atone. And they cannot possibly be as bad as their enemy, the Saraceni that await them with darkness in their hearts and nothing but wickedness driving their every action.

Although he is still, to his own mind, fresh from the cloth; Nicolò is not involved in the religious rites in camp. He sits and listens when they have liturgies and sacraments, but he does not stand up with the prævi and read from the texts, instead shoulder to shoulder with all the other grimy, scruffy fighting men. There is something new to find there, in the moments that he hasn't seen from the other side since he was a child. He finds it unsettling at first not to be at the front, voice and hands lifted to impart the lesson and message the faithful need to hear, but then peaceful; to listen only, and hear the word of Dîo echo across the gathered crowd, speaking _to_ him and not _through_ him. He thinks he remembers why the life of a devout man had appealed to him, what glorious salvation it had promised, although he seeks a different way to holiness now. They take the confession still, and he stands in line with the rest of the Frankish army, glad for the albeit brief Latin reprieve to all the Frankish he has to wade through on a daily basis, thanking the præve warmly and retreating to his shared tent to pray his penance in peace.

* * *

They take to the sea at Bare in òtôbre of anno Domini 1096. The crossing is beyond rough thanks to the season and the wildness of this particular sea, and it is the first real test Nicolò- and indeed the entire patchwork army- has to face. It will not be the last.

Nicolò is lucky to be on a ship where the capitànio is competent. He is also lucky that the capitànio, a thoroughly average looking man called Andriolo, is not Frankish but a local to Bare that Nicolò mostly understands, and that he has- both figuratively and literally- a chance to learn the ropes on board before it all goes to crashing down towards infernum. 

And the thing is, it _suits_ him. Years of servitude, of believing his chosen path to be the best one he could hope for... and all the time he could have been doing _this_. It does not bear thinking about- the loss of all those years- so he doesn’t; not too closely. 

Only a day after joining the crew Andriolo has them whipped into shape, and the routine and hard work are so familiarly comforting and yet many times more thrilling than tending the gardens of the paròchia, that Nicolò almost begins to smile. These new callouses he loves even more than the ones from his sword; his spirit is easy at sea, and the wind in his face; the crack of shifting sails; the creak of ropes and wood; the taste of salt... it all frees a trembling, tiny bird-like soul within him. He nurtures it in the honest work, eager to his tasks and starting to tentatively dream of perhaps a life after Iherusalem. His mind is clear and still when he lays his head down to sleep in his hammock, swaying with the swell of the waves, cleaned and exhausted by the labour into a forceful kind of peace that he is given instead of fighting hard for and finding always out of reach. 

Nicolò loves it dearly, and if he had the energy to dream at night he would dream of this, the first thing in his life that he can remember truly wanting, or rather that he can want without feeling ashamed. 

But it cannot last forever. It is cut short before he is ready to leave it behind; his first voyage at sea and it goes as badly as it can. Their capitànio sees the danger written in the dark horizon just before it chases them down. It hunts them like prey, trying to take them and toss them under the sea. The howling wind and lashing rain bite with equal sharp pain into Nicolò’s hands and eyes, but he grits his teeth and runs barefoot over the deck with the rest of the roused men, jumping into action. Andriolo shouts orders that the crew obey faster than ever before, turning their ship away from the rest of the panicking armada so they won't be slammed against another ship like a battering ram if the waves shift wrong. Nicolò hauls and ties and grasps alongside all the other desperate men as the storm rages around them, soon unable to even see beyond his own hands, let alone the rest of the ship or the armada beyond in the darkness. Not that he has the focus to spare to anything but his task. Their hands bleed and make things slippery but they do not falter. Nicolò fights nature itself, gritting his teeth and refusing to give up as flood after flood of stinging, icy water swamps over the deck to try and wash them away. He holds onto the man next to him, and is held in return. Even though every last cavagêi on the ship is ready to die for their Dîo and for their sins; they do not want it to be here, not now, not yet. Survival instinct kicks in and they fight fate as though they are up against u Diâo himself, as Andriolo’s voice shatters and rasps and yet still calls out over and over again and Nicolò pulls and pulls and clings onto his rope like it is- and it _is_ \- a literal lifeline and somehow they prevail. The water falls too hard and fast to even bother blinking, the thunder is loud enough to crack wood, and Nicolò has never felt more afraid in his entire life but they _make it_ , spotting a bay and aiming for it as directly as possible while the sails tear and the ship splinters around them. 

They run the ship in as far as it allows, scraping its underside mercilessly over coarse sand. Eventually it lurches and lists sharply to the side, and knocks a few men over the railings, but they are lucky compared to the unfortunates lost to the raging depths of the open ocean and can weakly swim through the shallows. On the beach awaiting the surviving crew are another hundred or so half-drowned men. A wrecked ship lies half under the water in the still-heaving waves of the bay. Nicolò should probably be alarmed to realise he hadn’t even noticed it when they’d limped past in their desperation to reach dry land; but all he can do is blink and fall to his knees on the beach, hands limp on the sand beside him without even the strength to close left in them. Their own vessel has not fared much better, wallowing low with great rends in the hull and sails but limping on long enough to spit them out onto solid ground before settling down onto the sand to rest forevermore. Provisions are lost; equipment and other supplies are lost; lives are lost. Most importantly it seems that Hugo Magnus is lost, and for a day- while most of them pass out right there on the beach for a good number of hours- they flounder, leaderless and directionless as though they had never left the blindness of the storm.

But word comes. Other ships have made it- not many but some- and the army is slowly regrouping to the south of where Nicolò's crew had landed. Hugo is being taken to Dyrrhachium after his own unplanned landing, which is where they are told the army will stop and await his recovery before pressing on; the sweetest words Nicolò has ever heard, he thinks. The cavagêi scrounge up what energy they have left and, under the command of the highest ranking commander not currently lying on the sea-bed, they stagger wearily on to meet their comrades.

* * *

Hugo is being cared for by the nephew of the Inperatô Alexius Comnenus- on whose request the pelegrinàggio was originally called it turns out, not that Nicolò had known before then. The nephew graciously hosts the remainder of Hugo's army in Dyrrhachium, waterlogged and pulling itself together in dribs and drabs, but only for as long as their commander needs before he can be on his feet again. The urgent desire to keep moving is strong among the cavagêi, and the other armies advance up behind them in the frenzy to reach Constantinopolis, but it is largely the nephew’s desire to see them quickly on their way out of his city that they hurry on and they all know it. It is not as much of a rest as Nicolò had hoped to get but he agrees with the general unspoken sentiment that it is far better to keep moving and look ahead than falter and get lost in what has just happened. Constantinopolis awaits; Iherusalem awaits. So he hauls himself onto his feet with his fellow cavagêi, silencing the screaming of his body so he can just keep going. 

The march on these long roads is worse than before, the spirits of all the men dampened by premature hardship and loss, found before they’ve even reached enemy lands. It feels quieter, emptier, but to their credit despite the conditions they do not give up. In so many ways the pelegrini that accompany them are responsible for that. They preach and spread joy and certainty wherever they can, reigniting the sputtering flame of righteousness and fervour where it has grown small and cold. Nicolò clings to that confidence, to his own faith and the routine of the liturgies and what few sermons they can hold on the road. The people of this land are sometimes welcoming, but more often than not turn out to be hostile, spitting at the feet of the passing army and ushering their children inside as Nicolò looks across at them. It is while they travel this way that the behaviour of l Ermitto's own failed pelegrinàggio is at last relayed plainly to the men Nicolò marches with. And it is somehow worse that he feels more disappointment than shock at the stories he hears. In fact he finds himself not altogether surprised that these locals would be wary of another such army; especially one that is armed and armoured, even if they are visibly too tired to cause any trouble. For nights on end he sits with his head in his hands and tries to call to mind words of prayer that will go even some small way to fixing the mistakes of their brothers and sisters in Gexù. For nights on end he fails. 

Back home all roads may lead to Ròmma, built to guide any traveller home to the heart of the old inpêro, but it feels in these parts that the same must be true for Constantinopolis. Nicolò has seen Ròmma now, and even if they skated alongside it, camping outside the main city itself much like they do in Constantinopolis, he had thought it the most impressive thing he had ever seen. Towering structures and sprawling streets that seemed to take up the entire horizon, still glorious even as they dulled, losing the lustre of their former jewel status within the dying inpêro. Soon enough Nicolò will be able to compare it with the eastern capital directly, and he wonders what he will find. 

Much like the people he rules, Inperatô Alexius is clearly in two minds about their presence on his doorstep. He has heard of the disaster in the north and reportedly fears similar problems for his city. He called for their aid, yes, but for all he cleverly manoeuvres the prìnçipi while they are negotiating- and then later once they are under his roof- he is clearly aware that they are akin to wolves unleashed; not to be restrained or tamed to his side or kept too long from their chosen quarry. He offers what concessions he can in bargain with the prìnçipi, deals and defers and receives oaths of fealty, from what Nicolò hears, but most importantly he allows the newly-united armies to camp outside the city until the spring.

And _oh_ , what a city.

What splendour Ròmma has lost in the past century, Constantinopolis still bears proudly, and more. The great Sancta Sophia is visible from almost wherever you are, and Nicolò enjoys the sight when he can peer into the distance and spot it. On a scale beyond the gêxa at Zêna, it feels like the greatest triumph in the name of Dîo that has ever been. Nicolò wonders if He looks down, pleased with the tribute, reaching to brush the top of its lofty tower as it strains up towards the sky and caelis. It is a nice thought that calms him to sleep for the first few nights they spend sleeping there. It is also the final dying gasp of his ever-weak optimism, desperately reaching for something good that won’t be lost like the rest. 

And then in Constantinopolis the world changes irrevocably for Nicolò. Home is finally, utterly behind him and ahead lies… who knows? Here the sky is different, the stars are different. The weather is different and the people strange; wearing clothing that startles and horrifies him and behaving in ways that have his head spinning. On one memorable occasion he ventures with some of the others into the city proper, his final attempt at embracing the world around him. It is doomed to failure before it begins- the safety of the familiar has an allure that nothing else can ever quite match, and even if the dressings are different between Nicolò and the Franks, he still knows the heart of them because it is his own. The Graecora in Constantinopolis are not what he knows. And they are not aiming for friendship- Pedrin l Ermitto has made very sure of that. Shock hits him like a rock to the face so hard it sends him fleeing back to the safety of camp never again to return. Well, the shock is part of it. The clod of earth and shower of small stones tossed at the group of cavagêi he’d accompanied by loudly shouting locals inspire furious feelings of embarrassment, resentment and disappointment, which finish the job. They don’t return to the city again.

It is an isolating experience for Nicolò that is shared by the Franks and the wider pelegrini but in the cold, dark months it enables a community to blossom within the merged armies and camps. They have all endured the same gruelling march and poor reception, and they all desire the same thing- to see the Holy Land freed of its pests. The people who scowl at them do not, cannot understand this, and the westerners see far more scowls than smiles, though there are some. Nicolò draws inwards and the army draws inwards and the pelegrini cluster in tightly and they shield themselves with prayer and promises from the outside world. That is how he spends the remainder of their months of encampment; feeling boundless discomfort within himself, mind whirling around and around until it settles on the easy decision to just ignore everything beyond the pelegrinàggio, a mutual agreement within the ranks of the men. There is no need to sight-see in cities or try and put undue effort into conversing with foreigners. As the pelegrini start to preach; that way lies u Diâo, waiting to disorientate and confuse a good man into thinking sinful thoughts and sympathising with their enemy. He understands their words, for if Nicolò tries to relate to these strangers and finds success, then what makes him think he will be able to resist the Saraceni? Beyond the obvious, that they worship a false dê and desecrate holy ground with foul violence against good people, of course. He must keep his eyes forwards. He must not look to the side and stray from the path.

They all fall twice as gratefully into the freely offered brotherhood of their allies, spirits bolstered by the proof that they are not alone and their mission is just, carried by so many more than just themselves. Constantinopolis accidentally, blessedly renews them. It charges them once more with holy purpose. They will take their months of rest over winter and prepare to be fired like bolts out of the tightly wound ballista that is Alexius’ iron grip, into the east. Nicolò looks forward to the day when they will at last break camp and leave Constantinopolis behind. He has decided; from the moment they land ashore on the other side of the water he is just another cavagêo in the army of Dîo, and that is that.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>   
>  **cavagêi-pelegrini:** Pilgrim soldiers  
>  **Graecora:** Byzantines  
>  **capitànio:** Captain  
>  **Inperatô:** Emperor  
>  **inpêro:** Empire  
>  **gêxa:** Church  
>  **dê:** God (generic)  
> 


	4. Saying Goodbye to al-'Iksandariyya and Thieves on the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Four Years Before Meeting_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I project heavily onto Yūsuf al-Kaysani and attempt to get him to hurry up on his way to his Date with Death.
> 
> Picks up after Chapter 2; translations available in hover on browser or in the end notes on mobile.

**Yūsuf**

While Yūsuf dallies in the city of al-’Iksandariyya he returns daily to the harbour, speaking to the local aqebṭanin anchored up in port, figuring he may as well take the chance to look into what sea trade possibilities exist these days. It has been many years since their business crossed waters, but eshâllâ it could be the time for it; his family have mostly recovered from the bitter shock of the attack on their home port, though the memory of fiery red dancing through the sky and smoke blackening the sky during both Ẓuhr and ʿAṣr still lingers on. There have even been efforts to rebuild the docks in the past year- begun only once it had become plain that there would not be a follow up force returning to take the entire city. Yes, the sea is calling them again, and there is pressure from the other side as well; Yūsuf’s family are far from the only ones being pushed further and further towards the coast now by the encroaching invaders and soon will have to rely on this business if they wish to survive, he knows. 

But instead of the good news and plentiful opportunity he hopes for he hears of growing unrest. The aqebṭan who talks to him looks irritated, complaining mainly about the growing pressure to convert his faith back home in the city of Nutas on Sikilia, or choose to leave. The son of a ship's aqebṭan himself, he had been born one of Yūsuf's countrymen in Ifriqiya and moved north to the island when young while it was still ʾImārat Ṣiqilliya. But to Yūsuf, who has no stake in the troubles of the place, that particular avenue of conversation grows less and less interesting. With some careful prodding his new friend turns towards other talk; rumours of an imasiḥiyen movement. The ‘Ifarangiyya amasiḥi leader has apparently issued some sort of grand statement and people are gathering to a cause that has truly riled them up. It sounds to Yūsuf’s regretfully experienced ear all too much like an impending war. 

"The h'ela'\- they are all unwashed and uncouth," the man says a little spitefully, rubbing a hand over his thick beard and making it glisten in the sun. Yūsuf has already traded a small pot of his own favourite beard oil for some strips of salted fish sitting wrapped in his lap to be eaten later, and they sit companionably together on the pier, perched on two solid barrels to share conversation. Yūsuf thinks he understands that spite quite well indeed. He himself glowers at every pale, flat-haired sailor that goes by while they sit. "They speak quick and think slow, luckily for me or I would have had more trouble than I already have. But at least profit and trade seems to hold their interest long enough to encourage them to let us sail free, and their rule protects us from the rest, the ‘Ifarangiyya and whoever else. We can speak our own languages, even if remaining faithful is no longer so easy. The new one, Buhimund, I do not like him. He is greedy for more than just commerce; he wants to rule whatever he lays eyes on I think, at least when it comes to the realms of the Vyzantinoí and the rest of the Toúrkous. Now, I would guess this thing they say is of their ilāh will be a chance for him. I pity those in his way."

"Will the ships remain safe?" Yūsuf wonders. As the aqebṭan pointed out, with careful manoeuvering they can often keep sailing despite the chaos going on in port wherever they dock. The aqebṭanin that make the voyage here to al-'Iksandariyya have different masters and sails and their trade is a little more protected by their new governance, but that does not mean they aren't in danger of being sunk if the wrong man in charge of an army decides he wants to meddle with the al-Khilafah al-Fāṭimīyah. "If the ‘Ifarangiyya move for further conquest, I mean. Will the route collapse?"

_Will al-'Iksandariyya be razed as al-Mahdiyya was?_

The aqebṭan shrugs. "I think they are going further north, first. They seem satisfied with their progress in Sikilia and their enemies there were the Vyzantinoí. They will fight the amenkad Alexius before they fight our people and I will continue as always and change whatever flags I must to stay afloat, because we are necessary."

His Taɛṛabt\- though he would call it ʿArabīy\- is mixed throughout with words Yūsuf does not recognise, but he manages to impress that the movement of people on the other side of the water is nothing to be sniffed at. Yūsuf can't help his frown. He knows all too well the power of a people motivated to move and take land they have been told does not belong to the people already living in it. Concern doesn't quite cross his mind; the problem is far away and more than likely to burn itself out before it gets very far, but even if it does not and starts to gain pace then there are so many obstacles- Rūmiyyat al-Kubra and the Vyzantinoí, the entire Saljuqiyān-e Rum\- before any madman could make it to these lands or Yūsuf's home on foot. The ‘Ifarangiyya and h'ela' have some control of the seas, granted, but in all their warring over territory in his lifetime they have yet to attempt to truly claim anywhere they cannot reach first by land, sticking mainly to their northern shores. Sicilia is an exception that mostly proves Yūsuf's theory; the ‘Ifarangiyya had it once and it is so close to the mainland as to be part of it, close enough that they no doubt believed it an easy target for depositing iserdasen. An island, after all, requires less force to conquer than land that stretches like al-Maghrib does off into the south. Borders of water are easier to maintain and hold. 

None of that logic stops the faint itching sensation between his shoulder-blades, though. The indescribable, indiscernible feeling that something is _off_. He is... disappointed? Perhaps? Or bitter, or even frustrated. Whatever the name for it he feels a tightness in his gut at the sound of more violence, more pain spilling over into the world from the well of rage invoked by such insignificant differences. 

He forgets all about it by the time he wakes the next morning, stretching his back out and moving to greet the sunrise as Allāh wishes. Qutaybah is excitable, bouncing along at his side and making him laugh as he nearly crashes into too many irate locals and market traders to count. It is just another thing that makes Yūsuf feel old somehow, to have such an excitable young man trailing along after him like a puppy. There is a little, domestic thrill about sharing commiserating looks and fond sighs with the elderly woman who sells them fresh cheese, and the loud and stout man who cons Yūsuf into spending far too much money on a cloak, by turning Qutaybah’s wide-eyed, naïve enthusiasm against him very deftly indeed. The merchant winks and apologises to Yūsuf while he mutters and passes the coin over, saying how glad he is to turn the skill on someone else after many years of his own children undercutting his best haggling. There is no mistaking Qutaybah for Yūsuf’s son, but it seems most people they cross assume he is a favoured younger brother, and in these times when families do not last as long as they should there is often not much of a difference between the two. Certainly Yūsuf feels the same amount of responsibility for the young man as he would for any niece or nephew or child of his own. More than he has ever felt for his own siblings, raised as they were with the skills to defend themselves and the safety of their family home. Now, if they had accompanied him on his travels? That might be a different matter, but as Qutaybah is here and they are not Yūsuf will heap all of his latent responsible tendencies on the boy instead and perhaps reap the rewards if he can teach him to use those youthful, lethal eyes _against_ the merchant traders rather than for them. 

“I do not think I have ever tasted the like!” Qutaybah declares from the next stall along, breaking Yūsuf’s reverie. He holds a small piece of bread in his fingers and makes plenty of admiring noises and Yūsuf sighs, seeing the gleam in the baker’s smile that means he will be parting with yet more coin that he would like. “Yūsuf you must come and try this!” 

He rolls his eyes but, tamella n Wakuc fell-as, he goes and tries it. It is very good bread.

* * *

A day later they finally make contact with an aserdas al-Fāṭimīyah, who is passing through on his own journey to join the skirmishing north and east of them. Qutaybah hangs back, uncharacteristically shy, while Yūsuf discusses travel arrangements and agrees to help them find passage by ship up the coast so they might save some long weeks of travel by foot going the long way round on land. The terrain is not so hospitable between here and their vague notion of a destination, so going by sea makes a whole lot of sense. Yūsuf brings them back to the aqebṭan he had befriended, directed by him on to another who is preparing to make sail in the right direction. Within just a few rushed hours Qutaybah is packed and onboard, excitably discussing the ropes and rigging of the ship with a wizened old sailor who good-naturedly steers him around, explaining the answers to his questions. 

Yūsuf steals him back onto the dock for a few parting words, a hand firm on Qutaybah’s shoulder. “You must listen to Anouer from here, amidi. His steps are your steps, his orders are your moves. Stay safe where you can amedray, and fight well when you cannot.” 

“I will, al-Tayyib,” the young man quips, grinning at Yūsuf’s wry look. The nickname is new and he is not sure how he feels about it. So he simply shakes his head and pushes Qutaybah firmly towards the plank that will take him onto the ship again. “Hader-ak Messiner, jekk Alla jrid, I will see you again!” 

“I hope not too soon,” Yūsuf calls after him, tucking his hands into his belt and watching his temporary charge vanish off into the bustle of movement onboard. Anouer, the aserdas, sends him a nod when they make eye contact and Yūsuf leaves them to it, satisfied he has done his part. Qutaybah’s yemma has been appropriately appeased, though she does not know it. 

The lack of Qutaybah to help and care for leaves Yūsuf with time on his hands and no reason to stay in the city. His thoughts turn to departure and the next leg of his own journey; overland to al-Qāhirah. He will need a horse to help him travel swiftly, although it will be hard to keep the beast fed and watered, even if they are approaching the cooler seasons of the year. The stretch that lays between him and the next city will still be scorching and anything but easy to traverse, and really a camel would prove a better way to travel, or a kārvān with covered carts, but Yūsuf is ever wary of travelling in such a slow and vulnerable way. So a horse it will be, and they will be careful about the route. He will stick to short, hard rides between stops where he can stock up and keep the animal alive, for the most part, and simply hope that Allāh sees fit to allow them to make it. 

* * *

“Ameddakel, surely you can see how strong he is!” 

“I can see how _young_ he is,” Yūsuf mutters skeptically that same afternoon, eyeing the gelding that this man- reminding him too much of Fātik- is trying to upsell to him. He has already decided to buy the slightly older mare standing idly nearby but the rigmarole of trading and bartering and arguing up and down with prices and wares is a dance that must be danced, and Yūsuf in fact holds it in high esteem. It can be fun with the right opposition, even. Today he rubs at his beard, barely listening to the obligatory blustering and then the more honest hum from the trader. The man makes sounds of great beleaguerment, throwing his hands around dramatically, until the mare Yūsuf wants is finally offered up. 

From there the haggling takes a different, harder turn and the dance picks up pace. 

“No, that is too much. She is soft, she won’t ride hard in the heat,” Yūsuf scoffs towards the end, hand slashing out decisively. 

“She is used to long travel, I assure you,” the man returns, palms spread and then fingertips pressed together, conveying honesty and reliability. But Yūsuf is better; his steps are quicker and more graceful. 

“Ah! Then she is not as fresh as you claimed. No, lower, lower. Or shall I be forced to leave as disappointed as you? Who else would buy an old thing like that off you for good money?”

“D axeṣṣar! You drive a hard bargain,” the merchant says with a rueful twist to his lips, holding his hand out for Yūsuf to shake. They grin, turning to the details of the purchase and Yūsuf bids him a gracious farewell when he leads his new four-legged companion off into the city. She is a plain old thing; a simple light brown with a thin layer of dust that everything, even the people, acquire easily when the high winds blow up from the south. Yūsuf takes her to the building he is staying in and sits outside, cleaning her as carefully and thoroughly as he cleans himself before prayer, murmuring nonsense into her ears and nose and flanks until she is leaning heavily against him, hoof cocked up in rest. 

“We will be great friends, you and I,” Yūsuf says. “There will be hard times but I think you will weather them well at my side, weltma-inu. I shall certainly rejoice at the chance to have a captive audience on this journey. I wonder what your feelings are on poetry?” 

She snickers softly against his back, head drooped over his shoulder. He lets her stay there for a little longer and then moves away, called to Maġrib. While he is not on the move he even takes the time to perform ʿIšāʾ separately in the dark of the night and feels all the better for the routine of it, settling back into bed with a sated, peaceful sigh and drifting into a dreamless sleep, briefly and beautifully certain of his place in the world and Allāh’s plans for him within it. 

And then before he knows it he is bidding al-’Iksandariyya a mournful goodbye, stopping by the docks with the horse to furnish himself with a few final treats. Yūsuf swings himself nimbly up into the saddle and sets back off on his journey, al-Qāhirah-bound. Always on the move, travelling onwards and onwards and ever onwards.

* * *

Al-ʾIskandariyya is long out of view behind him when Yūsuf next stops for the night. He eats, cleans, performs Ṣalāẗ and tends to his horse, settling in for a night of sleep under some trees. The breeze through the leaves is low enough to let the chirps of insects and the snuffling of the horse be his lullabye to sleep, and the fire burning down from his evening meal provides the last dregs of warmth to drift off to, a familiar sensation Yūsuf has come to secretly love about being out on the road.

He is less fond of the sensations that awaken him, hours later in the fading dark. 

He jolts into consciousness unexpectedly to rough hands and cold metal against his cheek, instincts having him rolling clumsily away while his mind flails for focus. Despite his habitually learned steady vigilance Yūsuf is not a quick riser. _"The road is not safe, do not travel alone!"_ was always his yemma's advice and he finds himself sorely regretting not taking it. Even with the heat of panic in his veins he rouses slowly, shaking his head to blink blearily at his attacker- his _attackers_.

The horse is being led away by a cursing, scruffy man, putting up a good protest and whinnying loudly in alarm too late to alert him before they were beset upon. Another is lunging towards him with his saif raised, a cry in his throat foolishly giving Yūsuf ample warning and time to roll abruptly back the way he'd come, drag the dagger from his boot and catch the thief in the throat before the blow can land. The would-be-murderer gurgles wetly- an undignified and unpleasant noise that makes Yūsuf recoil- dropping his blade to scrabble at his open neck. It is enough to catch the attention of the other thief, who drops the reins and runs back towards them, drawing his own weapon; a heavy looking club made from some unlucky tree's branch, knotted and gnarled and dangerously solid. 

Yūsuf barely avoids this blow, hard as it is to see the wood in the half-light before dawn. The metal blade of the first thief had glinted to warn him but this does not, and he sucks in a breath sharply when he feels it whistle down just past his shoulder to whack heavily into the ground where he had been lying. _Too close._ The thief roars at him- and why is it that ruffians always feel shouting is a useful strategy for attack? Is he supposed to be scared to death?- and hefts his shoulder, body weight hauling the club back up and carrying it smoothly round towards Yūsuf's face. Where Yūsuf is no longer.

Having ducked swiftly, he grabs the man's legs and _yanks_ , climbing over him when he thuds onto his back in the dirt, and using the same quick, efficient strike to the throat with his dagger to end the sorry individual's life, crouching over his body, panting, as he slowly dies alongside his companion.

Things go still.

In the wake of the fight, while the nearby insects nervously begin to trill again, Yūsuf sits up, head bowed and trying to pray to Allāh for the souls of these unfortunates. He grits his teeth against the- he hopes- understandable fury at being the target of needless crime. 

Although, his more gentle mind reminds him; so often these days such crimes are not needless and these men may not have wanted him dead for any reason other than that they needed what he had. These lands are worse affected than his own even, and times of plenty are not upon them. Perhaps these men had families to feed, or were simply trying to survive. But why does that entitle them to his blood spilled across the dirt? His anger stirs in response, biting and hot in his chest. Yūsuf has a family as well, a life to lead that is far from easy. He does not find himself glad they had died, no, but neither can he bring himself to regret their deaths. He survived where they did not; he chose (he always chooses) to defend rather than attack and work rather than steal for a living; he will rail and rage against the injustices of the world but he finds it very hard indeed to have pity for men who refuse to do the same. Who blind themselves to the true problem and lash out against those who should be their allies, united in the same unfair circumstances without a thought to trying to change them. Even so Yūsuf knows he should offer them his kindness and understanding, but the anger… _oh_ the anger inside him snaps and snarls when he thinks about reaching a hand out in peace to those who would fight him first. It is a failing of his- he cannot quite ever aspire to being the bigger man- but in calmer moments he hopes that the mere fact that he chooses to follow not the _anger_ but the _empathy_ counts for something in the eyes of Allāh. 

He takes a deep breath and turns aside his upset, choosing consciously to focus on the fact that they had not hurt or successfully taken his horse instead- a small but meaningful blessing, something to be counted. Luckily she waits nearby, skittish, sides heaving, but trusting him when he approaches with calm, steady footsteps and soft murmurs of reassurance on his lips. They press together, her velvet nose pressing into his stomach, and breathe slower and slower as the sun peeks above the horizon. Yūsuf eyes it wearily. He is already awake, he reasons- he should take advantage of the day he has been provided and thank Allāh that he is seeing it with living eyes. No point going back to sleep when the road awaits.

It feels viscerally wrong to perform Fajr beside cooling corpses so he moves off out of sight and steadies his mind first with the routine of tayammum, and then by following the motions and words he knows he could perform in his sleep at this point, so ingrained in his muscles and bones and spirit they are. His gratitude has a little more edge to it than usual but he thinks Allāh will understand after the awakening he was subjected to. He finishes and sits on his knees with his eyes closed while the sun starts to dance over his face, warming the unrest and residual anger from his limbs and his heart benevolently. He is blessed this morning indeed. A second to add to his count.

The two men Yūsuf considers for a while, and then strips them of anything useful he can carry but leaves them with their dignity, for whatever that might be worth to the dead. He lays them down side by side and closes their eyes, and then places the thin cloak the club-wielder had been wearing over them as completely as possible and sighs.

And then he shakes himself off and gets moving. Brushes the whole experience off and adds it into the book of his existence as just another brief interlude in the monotony of endless travel that comprises his life to date, and the future stretching before him.

For the first time that thought feels unfathomably empty, rather than free and wild and exciting.

_Is this it?_ Yūsuf thinks to himself, pausing as he glances back at the figures on the ground to take stock of his own feelings, fingers playing idly with the horse’s saddle straps. He does this periodically, checking in, attuning himself to his own soul beyond what some might think necessary. It helps keep him grounded and happy; ensuring he is doing what he feels is right and going where he knows he _must_ rather than listlessly drifting after some end destination he has not chosen and does not truly want to reach. Until now that destination has been no destination at all and the lure of possibility on the road has been his guiding force, but the land that stretches ahead suddenly does not hold potential but monotony and above all; loneliness. So he asks of himself; _is this the moment I grow weary of travel? Am I no longer a bird on the wing, but old enough to see the beauty in stability, to want to put down roots and grow old in the same place? Am I turned to tree at last, preparing to bloom in a new way, to sow seeds and help them grow and roam as I did, living through them?_

The answer is a very tentative and uncertain yes. He _thinks_ he does; but in lieu of an immediately definitive decision he offers himself the chance to know for sure. He will finish this journey and then return to al-Mahdiyya and spend time with his family at home. Perhaps even prepare to move to al-'Iksandariyya permanently, or see what other options remain. He still wishes to find the love that will light his life and his days and nights, but it could not hurt to stay still awhile and allow them to come to him.

Knowing his heading makes his departure swift and easy, and Yūsuf does not glance behind at the bodies again. The horse seems equally buoyed by his newly confident mood and they fly along the roads, shedding the distance between them and the blood of the morning off behind them in the shortest time possible. Al-Qāhirah beckons them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>   
>  **aqebṭanin:** captains  
>  **eshâllâ:** if God wills it  
>  **Ẓuhr:** Noon prayer  
>  **ʿAṣr:** Afternoon prayer  
>  **aqebṭan:** Captain  
>  **Sikilia:** Sicily  
>  **ʾImārat Ṣiqilliya:** Emirate of Sicily  
>  **imasiḥiyen:** Christian  
>  **‘Ifarangiyya amasiḥi:** Frankish Christian  
>  **h'ela':** Normans  
>  **Vyzantinoí:** Byzantines  
>  **Toúrkous:** Turks  
>  **ilāh:** god (non-specific)  
>  **al-Khilafah al-Fāṭimīyah:** Fatimid Caliphate  
>  **amenkad:** emperor  
>  **Taɛṛabt/ʿArabīy:** Arabic  
>  **Rūmiyyat al-Kubra:** Constantinople  
>  **Saljuqiyān-e Rum:** Seljuk Empire  
>  **iserdasen:** soldiers  
>  **tamella n Wakuc fell-as:** may God have mercy on him  
>  **aserdas al-Fāṭimīyah:** Fatimid soldier  
>  **amidi:** friend  
>  **amedray:** little brother  
>  **Hader-ak Messiner, jekk Alla jrid:** I swear to God, if God wills it  
>  **yemma:** mother  
>  **kārvān:** caravan  
>  **Ameddakel:** Friend  
>  **D axeṣṣar:** Damn  
>  **weltma-inu:** my sister  
>  **Maġrib:** Sunset prayer  
>  **ʿIšāʾ:** Night prayer  
>  **Ṣalāẗ:** prayer  
>  **Fajr:** Dawn prayer  
>  **tayammum:** dry ritual purification before prayer, allowed in place of using water if water is unavailable  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to the beta readers, translators, cheerleaders and wonderful support peeps I had with me on this: **[Lia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amicia98/pseuds/Amicia98), [harryhotspur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryhotspur/pseuds/harryhotspur), [mehmeh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehmehs/pseuds/aglassfullofhappiness), [Miri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriRainbowitz/pseuds/MiriRainbowitz)**, and even my poor confused flat-mate who diligently read this for me and yelled at me about apostrophes.
> 
> **  
> **ALSO! I'm still desperately searching for someone to help beta the sections relating to MENA culture, Arabic and Islam in the 11th Century, so if you think you can help there let me know!**  
> **


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